When my teenage Charley was 3 years old, a nice doctor with a gentle smile handed him a death sentence. It was impossible to fathom, because Charley was a typically rambunctious, active toddler. He climbed on the furniture and wrestled with his brother and wrapped his arms around us and squeezed with all his loving might. But a rare genetic mutation caused Duchenne muscular dystrophy, a deadly muscle wasting disease that had silently begun destroying my little boy’s seemingly healthy body.
